


After Hours

by lyndysambora



Category: Bon Jovi (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 05:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20501750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyndysambora/pseuds/lyndysambora
Summary: Jon gazed up the length of the pole in front of him. Then he motioned to it. “I coulda been a stripper.”





	After Hours

“I got piece of... trivia for you,” Jon slurred, turning away from the newly-locked door and dangling the keys in front of him, for a visual aid. “What it means when a guy that barely knows you gives you the... keys to his _brand-new fucking business_ and jus sssays, 'lock up when you're done'?”

Richie smirked and took a drink of his beer. “That we spend way too damn much time here?”

“Wrong!” Jon said, and gave the keyring one decisive shake before stashing it in his pocket. “It means he's kissing our asses. Means he fucking loves us.”

Richie smirked. “Come back and sit down before you fall on your stupid face.”

“I am not as drunk as you drunk. I'm not think-- Fuck you,” Jon said, sliding into the horseshoe-shaped booth bench across from his friend. 

“Scoot over some, I can't see you,” Richie said, motioning toward the silver pole that stretched from the center of the table up to the ceiling. Jon sighed and wriggled over a couple inches. 

“When's he gon get rid of this fucking things?”

“Probably never,” Richie said, his gaze drawn to one of the bar's stages-cum-dance floors. The last incarnation of the business had been as a strip club, and the new owner had simply spiraled the poles on the lower two of the three circular stages with rope lights and declared the areas dance floors. The poles, lights or not, attracted their fair share of plastered dancers attempting fabulous stripper moves and usually just succeeding in tearing down the lights. The stage in the middle, set three or four feet higher in the air than the dance floors, was now where the bands played. The poles there were unadorned, but still managed to be very prominently in-the-way if you were trying to play a set up there (as Jon had learned the hard way, clocking his shoulder and incurring a nasty black bruise the first night). 

Since then, they'd played the place at least once a week for the two months since the new guy opened it. His name was Tom, and after realizing early on that Jon and Richie were always too wound up to go home after a show, he'd taken to handing over the keys to the bar and just telling them to lock up when they left. 

“Well, an'way, I think he likes us.”

“Of course he likes us,” Richie said, “Guy's fucking rolling in it since we been playing out here.”

Jon gazed up the length of the pole in front of him. Then he motioned to it. “I coulda been a stripper.”

Snorting into his beer, Richie said, “Reach for the stars, my friend.”

“I'm serious,” Jon said. “You think I couldn'ta worked n'titty bar?”

Richie howled with laughter, dropping his head back onto the bench behind him, clutching his stomach. Jon narrowed his eyes. “Fuck you, y'know what I mean.”

Gasping for breath, Richie said, “Okay, all right. You'da made a fine stripper if you'da been born a girl.”

“Why do I gotta be a girl?”

“Well, I'm not sure, but I don't think guy strippers hang off poles like this. I could be wrong.”

“You're patronizing me.”

“And you're drunk off your ass.”

“So what? You're still patronizing me,” Jon said, dragging himself out of the bench again and leaning against the end of it a moment to steady himself. 

“Where are you going?”

Jon waved away the question and shuffled two tables down to the gigantic jukebox that filled the space another table used to take up. He flipped through the playlists for a moment, digging in his pocket for coins. When his blurry eyes alighted on selection E-16, he choked back a laugh and plugged the coins in. 

The pounding and sucking of digitized toms and cymbals filled the bar, echoing in the almost emptiness of the place. Jon turned around, assuming what he thought might be a come-hither stare (though he could never be sure after the fourth or fifth drink), and slithered back toward the table, with the opening strains of “The Stroke” to accompany him. Richie scrunched his eyebrows in minor confusion, and took a drink of his beer. 

Jon grasped hold of the pole and swung himself first up into the bench seat, then onto the table, mentally congratulating himself for even making it look semi-graceful. Richie plastered himself to the back of his seat, as far from the table as possible. 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Jon took a spin around the pole and lost his balance, barely regaining his footing in time to avoid face-planting into the concrete-block wall. 

“Holy shit!” Richie said, his hands still in the air from the reflex to save Jon from falling. “Get down, man, you're gonna kill yourself--”

“I'm just warming up,” Jon said, grabbing the pole with both hands and two sets of white knuckles this time, his body making slight contact with the shiny steel at his chest, and then at his hips and knees as he rippled against it. “Whatta ya think? 'm I any good?”

Richie's eyes were in danger of popping completely out of his skull. “Yeah, Jonny, you're fucking awesome, will you please get down?”

Jon spread his thighs and slid slowly down the length of the pole, pausing for a moment as his groin came level with Richie's face before arching his back and skimming back up it. 

_could be a winner, boy, you move quite well_

“Not 'til you tip me,” Jon sang along in time with the song, pushing himself against the unrelenting steel again, and rubbing his dick into unexpected life. He was surprised by how little he cared. 

Snapping his hips in all directions, his spine undulating with the beat, he lowered his eyelids at Richie and waited for the man to order him down again. 

The order never came, but something was amiss, and Jon couldn't put his finger on it. Within a moment, he'd forgotten he was even trying to figure it out, and instead he unbuttoned the fly of his jeans and pulled the flaps back to reveal a wedge of thin underwear as he brushed against the pole again. “C'mon, Rich,” he said, pulling the waistband of his underwear down a little and dropping to his knees. “You afraid of a little old tip?”

Richie opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out. Jon snorted and drew himself back up to his full height, and suddenly realized what it was a minute ago that seemed wrong. 

“Both hands where I can see 'em, Sambora!” 

“Fuck you.”

The laughter took what little strength was left in Jon's legs, and he sagged down to the table before sliding off into his seat with a little _oomph_. 

“You disappoint me,” Richie said.

Jon was just getting ready to give the other man a good _fuck off_, when Richie finished, “Your stamina isn't what I would have expected.”

His missing hand emerged from below the horizon of the table, a twenty-dollar bill between his first and middle fingers. Jon grinned and hitched his thumb back into the waist of his underwear, pulling it out.

END


End file.
